


Gone

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22615276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Heaven has sounded its war horns, and Crowley stands in a burning bookshop, watching his world go down in flames.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 87





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> As it turns out, sometimes your mental health problems decide to kick you right in the brain and hurt becomes much easier to write than comfort. So sorry if this is a bit light on the latter, but at least I finally managed to finish it...
> 
> Other fics will update as and when I trust myself with them, sorry if you're waiting for them! Shouldn't be too long, I'm feeling a bit better now. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one.
> 
> EDIT: Sorry, CONTENT WARNING for brief suicidal thoughts. Barely there, but there. Sorry. Forgot to add the warning.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled into the flames again, but deep down, he already knew his angel wasn’t there. He had always felt Aziraphale’s presence, never really questioned it - but now there was nothing. Just burning paper, the burning shell of what had been his best friend’s home. “Where the heaven are you, you idiot?”

A jet of water knocked him backwards, and for a moment he thought he had his answer; Heaven's cruelest creation, Holy Water, almost a kindness now that the bookshop was on fire and his world was ending. But no - it was just water, a fireman’s hose trying to extinguish the blaze, and it did him no good.

“You’ve gone!”

 _Somebody killed my best friend,_ he thought, but before he could draw in the air to scream that at his burning world, too, another thought struck him.

Heaven had sounded its war horns. Crowley had heard them, not long after driving away from Aziraphale, and he’d shuddered at the reminder of the upcoming conflict, but he hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been a bit preoccupied, after all, with getting back to his flat and preparing to defend himself against Hastur. But he'd heard the horns, so clearly audible to occult ears that it should have been laughable. Heaven had never changed the way its orders were conveyed, spelt out in the same strident notes they had always used. It wasn't as if the orders were a secret, he supposed. _Come, ye faithful, the time has arrived to destroy the enemy._ [1]

It had never occurred to him that Aziraphale, hearing those same orders, would go.

But there Crowley was, alone in the burning bookshop, and he couldn't sense Aziraphale at all. If he'd discorporated, there ought to be a body, or at least the lingering _impression_ of a body - Crowley had been discorporated often enough himself to be aware of how it worked - but there was nothing. If Aziraphale was simply elsewhere on Earth, Crowley would _feel_ it. He would _know._ But instead of the hint of warmth that meant _Aziraphale,_ all Crowley could feel was the absence of the one constant in his time on Earth.

Aziraphale was _gone._ Heaven had called him back, told him to ready himself for war and prepare to destroy all demonkind, and Aziraphale…

Crowley had known for a very long time that in the end - when Armageddon came - Aziraphale would have to make a choice between Heaven and Crowley. He'd thought he'd got used to the idea of not being chosen. He'd thought he'd made peace with it.

It turned out to hurt more than he expected.

He stayed on the floor of that bookshop for a long time, choking on tears and smoke, trying to force his mind away from the image of Aziraphale in his Heavenly armour, looming over him and raising his sword to strike. It wasn't hard to imagine the flames - he was surrounded by them, after all - or the shining plate armour, in the old Roman style, that Heaven probably still favoured. It wasn't hard to imagine the strength in Aziraphale's arms, or the firm stance as he planted his feet. Crowley knew him, after all, knew him as intimately as himself - and yet not well enough, apparently. 

He couldn't picture Aziraphale's face as he brought the sword down.

He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the first book that met his scrabbling fingers just for something to hold onto - some shield against the harsh, unrelenting reality of a world where Aziraphale had chosen to be his enemy - and burst out of the shop. Firefighters scattered in panic - _nobody could survive that -_ but Crowley paid no attention, focusing blindly on reaching the Bentley. He tossed his sunglasses aside, their weight suddenly unbearable, their frames warped by heat anyway, and made for his car.

His mind wandered to a tartan flask in a safe behind a sketch of the Mona Lisa, but it didn't linger there long. The flask was empty; he had used all of its contents on Ligur. If he had known then that Aziraphale was leaving, that he was only calling him to say goodbye, he might have made a different choice.

He might, at least, have answered the telephone and said his own goodbyes.

He went, instead, to the nearest pub, and was on his second bottle before Aziraphale popped into existence, discorporated but apparently quite determined to get back to him. Maybe God still loved Crowley just a little bit - or maybe it was just blind luck - because the book he needed was exactly the book he'd grabbed.

And then, in a flurry of activity, the world was ending, and then it wasn't, and they were on a bus back to Crowley's flat, Aziraphale's hand real and solid and corporeal again as he placed it on top of Crowley's. The demon stared stupidly at the point of contact for a moment, then carefully turned his hand so he could intertwine their fingers.

"Angel," he began, needing to ask so many questions and unable to force any of them past the wall of exhaustion that seemed to have blocked off his brain's higher functions.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Did… Do…" He gave up. "I'm so tired."

"Well, you have rather overexerted yourself today." If Aziraphale was disappointed in the lack of conversational brilliance, he didn't show it. "Why don't you get some sleep, Crowley? I'll wake you when we reach London."

"Mm. You don't mind?" He was already shifting to rest his head against the window as he spoke, but Aziraphale squeezed his hand and tugged gently until Crowley gave in and slumped onto his shoulder instead, materially helped along by an unexpected bump in the road. He glared suspiciously at Aziraphale, but the angel only smiled.

"More comfortable than the window, my dear. Go ahead - get some rest, and dream of whatever you like most in the world."

 _I'm leaning on him,_ Crowley thought to himself, and closed his eyes.

He opened them to find himself almost home, the familiar streets of London trundling by. He was still holding Aziraphale's hand, which was squeezing gently, but now he seemed to have curled in towards the angel; he sat up abruptly.

"Whassappnin?" He cringed at the way his words ran together, but Aziraphale seemed to understand him well enough.

"We can't be more than ten minutes from Mayfair. I thought I should give you some time to wake up, so…"

"Mm. Yeah." He carefully wiggled his fingers until Aziraphale released his hand; hopefully, the angel would just think he'd got a cramp from holding it in one place for too long. Of course, Crowley's joints knew better than to cause him pain around his beloved adversary, but - to his enormous surprise - he didn't want to hold Aziraphale's hand just then. He wanted answers far more than he wanted comfort.

They left the bus together - Aziraphale paused to heap a few miraculous blessings on the poor inconvenienced driver, and Crowley strode away to unlock his door - and stumbled into Crowley's flat for what might very well be the last time. In Aziraphale's case, it was also the first, and Crowley could practically _feel_ the angel's attention darting around, longing to explore.

"Look around, if you want," he shrugged, and slumped down in his throne. "I'll be here."

"Well, I- what's that?"

Crowley didn't have to look; the tone of Aziraphale's voice told him exactly what the angel was looking at.

"Ligur. Turns out that stuff worked."

"Oh. Oh, dear." Aziraphale sounded a little faint, and Crowley longed to comfort him, but he couldn't quite muster the energy.

"Yeah, your side could have done some damage with that."

"My side." There was a distinctly offended pause, and then- "I thought we'd established that we were on our own side, my dear."

"Well, _now,_ yeah. Not sure about this afternoon, though." It seemed his own questions were determined to be asked, even if he didn't think he had the strength to cope with the answers. "There's one thing I don't understand. Why did you change your mind?"

"Well, once I realised She really wasn't going to help-"

"You decided to follow orders. I know."

"No, I- what?" Aziraphale didn't need to play dumb, he didn't need to give Crowley those big innocent eyes. Crowley had already forgiven him, he just wanted to understand.

"I get it. Safest thing to do, only sensible, really. But then you came back, without your body. Why?"

"Crowley, I don't know what you're asking me."

"What happened in the bookshop?" _Why did you leave me, why did you decide to fight against me?_

"Well, I spoke to the Metatron, and he was as keen as anyone to get on with the war. And then Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell burst in shouting accusations, and I wasn't looking where I was going, and- oh, but you're going to laugh at me, it was a terribly silly thing to do."

"And what, angel?" Crowley doubted he'd find it amusing.

"And… I accidentally backed into the circle and discorporated myself."

Crowley didn't seem to be able to process that as a whole sentence; he was rather stuck on the word _accidentally._

"Accidentally," he repeated, just to be clear, "you _accidentally_ discorporated yourself."

"Well, of course. I was hardly going to think to myself, _I think - now that the world's in terrible danger - I'll just leave my body behind and pop up to Heaven,_ was I-?" His face fell. "Oh, no. Is that what you thought?"

"Heaven sounded the trumpets, and you were gone. I couldn't find you- your body was gone, the bookshop was _burning-"_ He had to pause to collect himself. "What was I _supposed_ to think?"

"That- well-"

Aziraphale glanced around the empty room as if hoping to be rescued, and then he was surging forwards, downwards, dropping to his knees before Crowley in his throne.

"Angel, what-? No-" He could Fall for that, Crowley didn't want him to Fall-

"It seems I owe you an apology," the angel told him firmly, "and I do beg your forgiveness. I should have made it clear, long ago, that I would never do that. I would _never_ do that, Crowley."

"Right." He couldn't answer him, couldn't _think_ with his angel kneeling at his feet. "Right. Well. Get up, you're being ridiculous." A vague flick of his hand, and the throne expanded to accommodate both of them. 

Aziraphale joined him warily, apparently aware that Crowley didn't quite believe what he'd been told, but seemed to decide that discretion was the better part of valour on this occasion. He handed over a scrap of paper that only confirmed all Crowley's fears about their fates - _soon enough you will be playing with fire_ \- and suddenly it hit Crowley that they didn't have time to skirt around things any more.

"I wouldn't blame you if you'd gone," he told him, "you were Heaven's, you were called up, why wouldn't you?"

"Do you really have to ask me that, Crowley?" And Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley's cheek, and he took a deep breath, and he kissed him.

He kissed him.

Crowley's brain stopped working; all he could do was bring his hands up to rest on Aziraphale's arms, anchoring them both in the moment, in the _kiss._ Aziraphale was here, and he was kissing him. _Don't leave me. Don't go where I can't reach you. Please don't leave me._ Aziraphale was kissing him, and then he was drawing back.

"I love you," his angel murmured, "I was never going to stand on a battlefield knowing you might be on the other side. We're on _our_ side."

"I love you," Crowley echoed, wondering at his ability to finally say it - and feeling, all at once, very guilty about assuming Aziraphale had betrayed him. "Should have known you were just too clumsy for this world," he muttered, trying for a jokey tone of voice and missing the mark considerably. 

Aziraphale shook his head, hearing the unspoken apology in Crowley's words.

"I'm sure in your place, if our situations had been reversed, I'd have drawn the same conclusion."

Crowley scoffed at that; if they'd been in each other's places, things would have gone _very_ differently. They were an angel and a demon, after all, eternal opposites-

"Wait. Angel. Say that again."

Maybe they were going to survive after all.

* * *

[1] Crowley had, of course, been instrumental in inspiring a Christmas Carol along similar lines, turning carollers into the worshipful equivalent of a dedicated prank-call network for the likes of Gabriel and Michael. It was one of his favourite things about Christmas, knowing the Archangels were frantically rushing about and trying to separate real orders regarding The War (of which, of course, there had been none) from the noise of human celebrations (of which there were so, so many). He and Aziraphale had both been able to claim credit for that one, though neither side was entirely happy about it. [return to text]


End file.
